


nothing lasts forever (but this is getting good now)

by tardisandjam



Series: if you had to choose [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:52:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4711667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardisandjam/pseuds/tardisandjam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is going to kill every man on whichever strike team brought that fucking lamp back without warning him not to touch it with his bare hands. Slowly, painfully, brutally. The moment he gets away from this so called genie and out of the fucking lamp, he swears he will. He’ll have Lucy round them up and shove them in a room so that he can beat the living shit out of them.</p><p>As it is, it doesn’t look like he’s getting out of here any time soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing lasts forever (but this is getting good now)

**Author's Note:**

> I hit such a road block with writing and it's been SO frustrating because I've had so many ideas for previous prompts (which I will probably go back and write anyway eventually because god, I'm mad), but I finally managed to write this one! I actually had to stop myself because it was getting out of control. Guess it took actually going to the Taylor Swift concert and hearing 1989 in person and connecting every song to biospecialist to get my writing muse back, eh?
> 
> Title is from Wildest Dreams by Taylor Swift. 
> 
> WSSummer prompts "magic" and "sleep"- though, the second one isn't as prominent in this, but it's still sort of there.

He is going to kill every man on whichever strike team brought that fucking lamp back without warning him _not_ to touch it with his bare hands. Slowly, painfully, brutally. The moment he gets away from this so called genie and out of the fucking lamp, he swears he will. He’ll have Lucy round them up and shove them in a room so that he can beat the living shit out of them.

As it is, it doesn’t look like he’s getting out of here any time soon. This genie doesn’t even look like one of the stereotypical ones- petite, fair skinned, hazel eyes. They look familiar and not at the same time. He just can’t put his finger on who exactly they resemble, but he’s more concerned with the fact that green smoke fucking _ate_ him and crapped him out inside the lamp.

“You’ve been awfully quiet.” A soft, lilting voice draws his attention back once more. “I’m shocked. Most men in your position of power are normally requesting things- more money, an army.”

Grant scoffs. “I don’t need any of that.” He can handle things himself, he’s proven that over and over.

“Then what _do_ you need?” She sashays towards him, curious eyes searching his face. “Everyone has _something_ they desire. Surely there’s something you long for? Something you’d like to change?”

His mind flashes back of its own accord- Kara, lying on the floor, dead at his hands; Thomas, addled and medicated, confined to his bed in hospice after the well incident damaged him forever; the team, full of hatred for him. A dull ache forms in his chest despite his best effort, and he shakes his head. “There’s nothing I want except revenge.”

The genie tsks at him. “I saw inside your head. A life full of pain and regrets. Wouldn’t you like something better?” She practically presses her body against him, smiling. “I can give you everything you’ve always wanted.”

More images flash through his mind without permission- the team, welcoming him back with open arms and smiles and forgiveness; Thomas, healthy, uninjured, living life to the fullest; a white picket fence, a house in the suburbs, a dog running to greet him, a baby wrapped in a blanket lying in his arms-

“Get the fuck out of my head,” he hisses, pushing her away. He doesn’t need any more ghosts haunting him. He already feels Kara's judgement every time he sits down at his desk. “I’m not here to play games.”

“No,” she agrees. “You’re not. But- perhaps _one_ game won’t hurt?” A teasing smile spreads across her face. With a flourish, a golden coin appears in her hand, spinning between her fingers. “You tell me what you believe is your greatest wish. I’ll show you the outcome of one of the wishes- the one I perceive as your greatest desire or the one you believe is yours. You can decide whether you want the one I show you or the other.”

“And I don’t get to see the one you don’t show me?” He scowls when she shakes her head. It’s risky, making a decision like that without all the variables.

“That takes all the fun out of it!” The genie lets out a melodic laugh. “It’s no fun without risk.”

“I beg to differ.” He grimaces. Magic is _definitely_ not something he’s fond of (thank you, Asgardians), and taking risks with it is something he’d rather avoid. (Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembers Simmons scolding them for believing in magic, thinking it to be advanced science they didn’t understand yet. He wonders if she’d consider this science, if she could make an excuse for being _eaten_ by something strange.) But the chance at getting exactly what he wants- revenge for Kara -is too tempting, and besides, he’s sure he won’t like whatever this bitch conjures up. It won’t be hard at all to turn down whatever she thinks he wants.

“Fine.” He pretends that he can’t see the excitement in her eyes as she settles onto a pouf beside the fire. “I want the means to be able to dismantle SHIELD.”

“Oh, I’m not surprised with that wish.” She shoots him a look. “You may want to sit down. Magic like this can be tiring for you.” With a giggle the genie sends the coin spinning into the air, light reflecting off the golden surface before she catches it, flipping it onto her palm. “Tails. Have fun.”

“Wait, which one is that?” he barely manages to get out before she snaps her fingers and darkness takes him.

* * *

He wakes up on the floor of his office, his assistant hovering over him concernedly.

“Sir? Are you alright? Willard came in to give you the report on the strike against the SHIELD base in Atlanta and he found you on the ground. He said you were shaking and that you looked incredibly ill.”

Grant presses a hand to his eyes, grimacing somewhat before sitting up. There’s a dull ache that throbs in the back of his head for a moment, but it goes away quickly. “What strike against a SHIELD base? I never ordered that.” He manages to get to his feet without his head spinning badly, but he still needs to lean against his desk to steady himself.

“The strike you ordered last week, sir?” The concern on the woman’s face only intensifies. “Sir, are you sure you’re feeling alright? Should I call your car to take you home so you can rest? I can handle Willard’s team’s debrief if you’re not feeling up to it.” She looks worried. “Should I call your wife?”

He almost pushes for more information on the attack he apparently ordered, but he sticks on her last word. “Wife?” he asks dumbly. This can't be his wish. It has to be the genie's idea of his happy ending.

The query is enough to convince his assistant of something, probably that he’s sick as hell, and within seconds the blonde pulling out her mobile. “Why don’t you sit down, sir? I’ll call your car to come get you and I’ll let your wife know you’ll be home early.” Heels click across the floor as his assistant leaves, the phone pressed to her ear.

This is all too much. He shouldn’t have fucked with that genie, or that lamp for that matter. Still, he couldn’t have let it fall into Coulson’s hands. The team is far too vindictive and would probably wish him dead in the most painful of ways, especially if it was May or Skye.

He takes the advice given to him and sits down behind his desk, looking over the array of files spread out there. It can’t possibly be his, it’s far too messy, but a few of his personal touches are still there, along with a few others. His focus is more on the papers in front of him though. Grant picks one of them up, opening it, flicking through it. It’s an assessment for- _no_. Leo Fitz.

What the _hell_ has he gotten himself into?

The file is put aside in favor of another, his eyes skimming through the papers. It’s another assessment, this time for a Lincoln Campbell. The name doesn’t ring a bell, but the attached photo jogs his memory somewhat of the time he and Kara helped Coulson out when Skye was missing. He’s not sure how wish-him had convinced both Fitz and this Lincoln to join his side, but he almost feels pride.

Grant goes through a few other files- acquisitions, strategic strikes against SHIELD. One file tells him that May was severely injured on the last mission he went on personally. He’s definitely proud of his dream-self. His attention turns now to the personal things. There’s the photo of Kara, by his phone. The plant he’d bought for their house, growing well. There’s a pang of sadness in his chest at the sight, so he has to look away, his eyes drifting to the other side of the desk.

There’s a photo of a newborn child there, and he picks it up curiously, popping out the back of the frame to see if there’s any sort of caption. And there is, luckily. In neat, small cursive, written at the bottom of the photo, are the words _‘Taylor Elizabeth Kara Ward, 8lbs 6oz, 21”, born July 19th at 9:34 am’_. It hits him- this is a photo of his daughter. Grant flips it over again, examining the infant’s face carefully, trying to determine the mother from his child’s features. He can’t figure it out, so he replaces the back and places the photo back down.

Another frame catches his attention and nearly stops his heart. It’s a wedding photo, clearly- he’s in a proper tuxedo, holding a gorgeous woman in a wedding gown. His hands shake as he picks it up. The woman is shorter than him, much shorter, brown hair, fair skin, hazel eyes. It feels like the whole world has frozen the moment he figures out who it is.

It’s Simmons. Jemma Simmons. The woman who tried to kill him with a splinter bomb.

That genie must’ve been smoking something to think that he’d ever- that he and Simmons-

It’s making his head hurt again.

* * *

He’s understandably shaky when his assistant returns to take him down to his private car, assuring him that his wife knows he’s coming home early and that everything at HYDRA will be taken care of so he can rest. Despite the whole married to Simmons situation, he actually is rather pleased with how the organization is here. (The Simmons-is-his-wife thing does explain why Lincoln and Fitz are here, though. He’s a little disappointed that he wasn’t the one to actually recruit them, but he’ll take it.)

The car zooms out of the city swiftly, tall buildings giving way to manicured lawns and parks. Part of him wonders why he would choose such a plain place to live. Grant just chalks it up to Simmons’s influence.

When the car finally stops, Grant gets out without so much as a thank you, staring up at the house. It’s so…. domestic. There’s a fence around the yard (it’s a legitimate _white picket fence_ , what the _actual_ fuck), flowers growing up against the outside of it. A large tree grows in the corner of the yard. The lawn looks well taken care of, and momentarily he wonders if he’s the one who does that, or if it’s a gardener. Grant can’t imagine himself sitting there with a lawn mower and gardening gloves.

The house itself is beautiful. Two stories, painted a soft beige color, with a wraparound porch. He’s got to go in eventually- he’s pretty sure his driver won’t leave until he does, and he doesn’t need to act anymore out of the ordinary than they already must think.

The door is unlocked. He grimaces a little at that. In any universe, he’s thorough as fuck, and leaving it unlocked in a universe where he’s married and a father is just a huge threat. “Hello?” Grant almost trips over something on the ground, picking it up and examining it. It’s a chew toy. (Awesome. He has a dog. Or, at least, dream-him does.) “Si- Jemma?” Her first name is bizarre on his tongue, but somehow it feels right.

He hears footsteps on the stairs and he’s greeted with the sight of a smiling Jemma Simmons. It almost makes his heart ache- she hasn’t smiled at him like that since before SHIELD went to shit. He’d never been really interested in her, from a tactical standpoint- she trusted easily enough for him to make sure she wouldn’t suspect him, but he had to admit she was gorgeous like this, hair a little longer than the last time he’d seen her, in a blue tank top and jean shorts, her feet bare.

“Grant!” She bounds down the last two steps to greet him, tiptoeing to kiss his cheek gently. Subconsciously, his hands move to settle on her hips, the edge of her tank top riding up. His thumbs brush against bare skin. “Lucy called me to tell me you were coming home early, said you weren’t feeling well.” Concern spread quickly over her face. “How are you feeling now?”

“I’m fine.” He’s startled when she reaches up to press the back of her hand against his cheeks and forehead, her skin cool against his. “Really. I _promise_ I’m fine.”

Jemma doesn’t look convinced. “You feel a little warm. Maybe you should lie down, hmm? I’m making dinner right now- Taylor wouldn’t go down for her nap, Buddy kept distracting her. They’re both upstairs if you want to see them, but I suggest you shower and change into something more comfortable before you do, in case you really aren’t feeling well.” She kisses him gently before smiling, moving towards what he assumes must be the kitchen. He’s shocked to find himself grinning after her.

This isn’t as bad as he thought.

* * *

Grant stops in on the nursery before heading back downstairs. A dog is curled up on the floor beside the crib, seemingly asleep until he picks up his head, looking up at Grant. He can’t help but smile a little, bending down to scratch the dog’s ears. “Hey, Buddy.” He chuckles. “I bet I named you, huh? Simmons probably would’ve named you after some scientist or something.”

He’d like to pay more attention to the dog, but a soft whimper from the crib grabs his attention. Straightening up, he moves to peek down, stunned by the warmth that filled him at the sight of his daughter. She’s fussing a little- he doesn’t think it’s a diaper thing, and it doesn’t sound like a hungry cry, so he bends a little to pick her up, cradling her gently in his arms. Little Taylor calms instantly, gurgling and staring up at him.

“Hey, kid.” He can’t tell what possesses him to actually talk to the baby, but he’s doing it anyway. Grant spots a rocking chair in the corner of the room and he moves to take a seat in it, Buddy getting up to follow him and curling up by his feet. “It’s, uh, your dad. Yeah. That’s so fuc- _freaking_ weird to say.” He does manage to catch himself before he swears, and he sees Buddy look up at him almost judgmentally. Is he seriously getting the stink eye from a dog?

“Anyways, uh… Go back to bed, yeah? Dad’s gotta- I don’t know.” He grimaces a little at his lack of words as Taylor coos softly. “Why do I feel like you’ll start screaming if I put you down?”

“Because she will.” Jemma’s in the doorway. He didn’t even hear her approaching. He’s slacking hard. “She’s already a daddy’s girl, darling. Bring her downstairs, won’t you? Dinner’s ready.”

He nods, watching her walk away. He’s liking this world more and more the longer he stays here, and he knows he’s losing sight of what he thought he wanted before.

It’s going to be hard to make a decision eventually. He knows it.

But until then, he’s going to enjoy this.

 


End file.
